


Absent Fathers

by sparxwrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blasphemy, Blow Jobs, Daddy Issues, Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s05e03 Free to Be You and Me, First Time, Guilt, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Prostitution, Redemption, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This whole industry runs on absent fathers." Dean makes good on his promise to not let Castiel die a virgin, and thinks on absent fathers, love, and redemption. </p>
<p>Coda/missing scene at the end of S5E3, Free to be You and Me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absent Fathers

Castiel’s more than a little hopeless at normal human interaction, Dean’s noticed. Which, to be honest, is fair enough - it’s not like he’s human, not like he’s needed to learn how to behave in American society before. For all Dean knows, he’s one of the most social angels in Heaven, or at least one of the most decent, judging by the other pricks they’ve met so far.

But, really, even if Dean can understand  _why_  Cas is so useless when it comes to pretending to be normal, that doesn’t make it any less funny. And this, really, takes the biscuit in terms of humorous Castiel-related events.

“This whole industry runs on absent fathers, it’s-” Dean shakes his head and huffs out another breath of laughter, unable to keep the grin from pulling at his cheeks. “It’s the natural order of things, Cas.”

_Runs on absent fathers and drugs, sex and sweat and Ecstasy, and a craving for touch that’s strong enough to drive someone into the arms of endless men they don’t know, who probably don’t give a shit about them. Ain’t nothing natural about that._

“Oh.” For a moment, Castiel is silent, staring up at the cloud-obscured stars as they trot down the alleyway to the Impala. There’s crips packets and soggy adverts and worse underfoot - piss, used condoms, a pile of shit that Dean sincerely hopes is from a dog. And then: “I think I understand.”

Dean turns his head to look at Cas, and freezes a little at the understanding in the angel’s eyes - and, more than that… something approaching pity. Empathy, maybe.

Empathy directed at him.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that!” jokes Dean, nudging Castiel’s ribs with his elbows and forcing his grin to stay where it is. It’s not like Castiel can possibly know, after all. Can’t know about the time’s Dean’s dropped to his knees in back alleys like the one they’re walking to, about the time’s he’s let himself be manhandled onto all fours on some crappy motel bed in a room that’s not his own.

(And even if he does - because fucking  _angels,_ man, they’re sneaky bastards sometimes - it’s not like he can possibly know the even dirtier part of Dean’s dirty little secret: that sometimes he  _liked_  it, got off on it, even.  Because even if he was nothing more than a quick fuck, cheap and easy, to them, then at least they  _cared_  enough to fuck him, cared enough to hold him down and swear at him, spit at him, hit him. At least they cared, in a round-about sort of way, and how fucked up was that, that he’d rather be slapped and told he was a whore by some trucker in their mid-thirties than be ignored and patronized and disregarded by his own father.)

_(“Slut. Whore. Little bitch. Such a pretty mouth, nice cocksucking lips. Go on, swallow it down, take it nice and deep, just like that. Does your daddy know you’re this big a slut for dick, huh? Does he know? Does he get free samples? Tell me, kid, do you suck your daddy’s cock with these lips, too?”)_

“S’those girls you should be making sad puppy-dog eyes at, not me, man,” he says with forced humour, managing to still chuckle as they reach the Imapla and he pulls the keys from his pocket, unlocks the car, slides into the driver’s seat.

Castiel says nothing. Dean expects him too, is hoping he’ll either confront him or just  _stop_  with that look in his eyes - even if it’s now focused out the windscreen instead. But he doesn’t, not even when the car starts running and they pull out onto the road, roaring through the empty center of town.

The drive back to their base camp is done in silence, awkward and echoing with the things neither of them have said. God only knows what Castiel is thinking, literally. Maybe not even God knows. Maybe the thought processes of Heaven’s strangest angel are a mystery to him too.

Dean is remembering his promise.

_“There are two things that I know for certain. One. Burt and Ernie are gay. Two. You are not going to die a virgin. Not on my watch. Let’s go.” Stupid thing to say, stupid joke to make, you know he doesn’t get pop culture references. Why the fuck did you even say that._

He’s got a reputation to uphold. After all, Dean Winchester keeps his promises. Always.

Back in the empty, half-ruined house, Castiel doesn’t seem surprised when Dean pushes him into a left-behind chair and drops to his knees between the angel’s legs. He doesn’t try to stop the hunter when Dean unbuttons his - Jimmy’s - dress pants, pulls down the zip. he even shifts his hips accommodatingly when Dean tugs on them, lets him slide them down around Castiel’s ankles, black fabric pooling on the dusty floor, followed shortly by his -  _Jimmy’s_  - boxers.

He doesn’t try and stop things when Dean reaches out and curls a hand around his flaccid penis, the warmth of skin on skin a sharp shock of contrast to the cold of the room.

_Last night on Earth. Let’s go out with a bang. Sound the gongs, get the drums going and the trumpets sounding, what’ve we got to fucking lose, huh? Only self-respect, and I damn well buried mine a long time ago. Nowhere to go but up when you’re kneeling on the ground._

He lets Dean stroke him to hardness, tiny sounds being pulled from his mouth with every drag of Dean’s fingers down his length - small gasps, hitches of breath, an almost beatific sigh. They get louder when Dean takes him in his mouth, the taste clean and sharp, lacking the salt-sweat-dirt tang he’s so used to, the skin perfectly clean and velvet-smooth. Just another of the perks of being an angel, he supposes. Fingers find their way to his hair, curling lightly in the mess of brown, the tendons tight in Castiel’s arms and the muscles of his thighs taut.

Castiel comes near-silently, a sigh of release the only warning Dean gets. Castiel’s come is warm and clean and salty, more human than his skin at least, familiar enough that Dean swallows it down without hesitation. He lets Castiel’s penis fall from his mouth a moment later, as clean and soft as when they started, although now spit-slick and shiny from Dean’s mouth. The cold of the room against the wet must be uncomfortable, thinks Dean, but if Castiel agrees he shows no sign of it.

_I’m sorry, Cas. I’m so goddamn sorry. For this. For everything. For making you trust me, for making you Fall. For giving you free will, and your first orgasm, and this burden of freedom that you never goddamn wanted. For making you doubt, and making you come. For making you something human, broken, fucked up, just like I am - and maybe God made humans in His image, but I’m reshaping you in mine, and that was never a damnation I wanted for you._

Breathing a little harder than before, muscles still lax from his first (and maybe only) orgasm, Castiel strokes Dean’s hair gently, soothingly. He knows. Of course he knows. He’s watched over Dean his whole life, from the moment he was conceived, through gestation and birth, as a baby and as a child, through his teenage years. How could he not know, when he wept for Dean, for the things he did and felt he had to do, for the amount of pain such a bright soul could carry. So yes, he knows. But he does not judge.

When Dean finally looks up, finally dares to meet the angel’s gaze, Castiel looks him in the eye, and says, softly, “It wasn’t your fault your father ran off.”

And Dean breaks.

On his knees in front of an angel of the Lord, forehead resting against Castiel’s thigh, and Castiel’s soft, damp cock pressing against his cheek, he breaks down; cries and cries, until the angel’s skin is wet with tears - and through it all, Castiel never once stops stroking his hair.

And through it all, Dean knows that - on his knees and sucking cock like a useless, broken, two-bit whore - Castiel’s come tasted more like absolution in his mouth than any prayer or Bible verse ever did.

If he didn’t already know it, he’d be sure he was going to Hell.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Only if for a Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1707212) by [My_OTP_is_Better](https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_OTP_is_Better/pseuds/My_OTP_is_Better)




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